


One Road Before Us

by lammermoorian



Series: wincest drabs [6]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - War, Crossover, Fake Character Death, Implied Drug Use, Ishvalan War, M/M, Suicidal Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 14:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8252209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lammermoorian/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: Supernatural /// Fullmetal Alchemist - Sam Winchester, the Dark Blood Alchemist, in the trenches of the Ishvalan war. A quiet moment in the long conflict.





	1. Part 1

“Yeah, I’ve got my mom… my sister. You know, just the three of us. They were pretty beat up about me leaving. My sister was clinging to my leg all the way to the train station. That’s pretty much what’s keeping me going, knowing that I have to stay alive so I can see her again. I don’t want my last memory of her to be a sad one, you know?” The campfire is doing nothing for Sam, arms tightly wrapped around himself to stop himself from shivering. Not that his platoon hasn’t already seen him in all stages of addiction - the highs, the lows, the withdrawals, the nightmares - but Sam still fights to preserve what little dignity he has left, as a soldier, if nothing else. He’s failed as a brother, and as a commander, but at least he has this, for however much longer he’ll be alive.

Sam coughs, and shudders, and Lily’s hands are on him immediately, rubbing circles into his back. 2nd Lieutenant Jake Talley stops his story, offers him the dirty, dusty handkerchief from his own pocket, but Sam refuses. “I’m fine,” he croaks. “Don’t stop on my account.”

They talk, tell stories to pass the time, bloody and dirty and worn out as they are. Sergeant Andy Gallagher started it. He’s practically inexhaustible, somehow brimming over with energy and cheer, even in the midst of a war zone. Half the time, Sam is grateful. Half the time, Sam wants to murder him. But it’s a comfort tonight, filling the silence in the calm before the storm.

They’re moving out tomorrow, to start the final push. No. That’s too kind. They’re starting the final extermination tomorrow.

“It’s fine,” says Jake, “I was done anyway. Not much else to know about me.”

“What about you, sir?” They’ve been going in a circle. Sam is next. “Do you have any family back home?”

Sam thinks of elbow grease and beer and burgers, green eyes and freckles and the taste of his mouth, and the cold, quiet morning he left it all behind. The way he left Dean; confused, angry, guilty, dirty. The way he broke the only good thing in his life. “Yeah. I had a brother.” Has. Had. Maybe Dean woke up with come on his stomach and vomited when his memory returned, maybe he threw out all of Sam’s things and ripped up their childhood photos. Maybe he’s glad he gave the amulet away, let go of the monster hiding in the shape of his little brother. There’s a buzz in his ears, and a thousand pounds around his neck. Maybe Sam misspoke. Or maybe he has found his Truth instead.

“What was his name?” Damn, persistent Andy.

“Dean.” And Sam coughs again. Conversation, over.

“Sir,” says Lily, “it’s too cold outside. Let me help you back to your tent.” She’s right; it’s too cold. Sam is so cold. He can’t remember what it felt like to be warm, or, fuck, even healthy, a lifetime of happiness dissipating into thin air, mist in the unforgiving sun, stone weathered down to dust. He coughs again, a deep, wet, racking cough, from all the way within his soul, that leaves him doubled over gasping for breath, coppery blood on his tongue. He’s going to die here. Today, tomorrow, from withdrawal or a bullet or a club, he’s going to die in this desert, this Hell, without even the memory of his brother’s hands to give him some joy before he kicks the goddamn bucket.

Lily sits him down in his tent and wraps him in his blanket, jaw twitching, like she’s just barely holding her tongue, the chain of command keeping her from telling off her stupid, stupid commanding officer. “Thank you,” he rasps, throat raw and bloody, “I need you to do something for me.”

She nods. “Of course, sir.” She towers over him, long blonde hair dirty, matted, and bloody, black soot smudging her face, but still so beautiful. So kind. She is an angel, will be an angel, a messenger in the most literal sense of the world, to deliver revelation onto the unsuspecting. He only hopes Dean will be receptive.

With shaking hands, he undoes his jacket, pulling his brother’s amulet out from under his shirt. He hasn’t taken it off once, running the risk of failing inspection with the small lump on his chest, breaking the tight, restricting line of his uniform. He remembers every moment of this necklace’s journey – from Bobby’s basement to his hands to Dean’s neck, and back to him, the night before he shipped out. That horrible, wonderful night. He takes a shuddering, wheezing breath, and holds out the amulet. “I need you to send this back home. To my brother.”

She’s not even surprised. Lily nods again, holding out her hand, and Sam lets the amulet drop, lets go of his brother and his life and whatever time he has left. “I’m going to die here,” he says, stony, unconcerned. “I don’t want it to get lost. It’s his, anyway.”

“I understand.” Sam was afraid that she was going to cry, but she doesn’t. So strong and brave, so willing to die alongside him. “I’ll send it off tomorrow.” She slips it into the pocket of her own jacket, then turns to rummage through his open case on the floor, setting up his apparatus for him. He’s not supposed to take another dose until tomorrow morning, when he and the other alchemists are sent out. He’s been saving up, resisting his own temptation for weeks now – he needs to be as powerful as possible, as efficient and ruthless and bloodthirsty as he can be. At the end of the day tomorrow, he doesn’t want to be alive.

But she only fills the needle with a little bit, just enough to keep him grounded, to help him sleep, rolling up his sleeve and injecting him with the precision that only time and practice can give. He breathes out, every muscle relaxing, one by one, a tingle from his head to his feet. “Thank you. You’re dismissed.” He falls backwards onto his bed, light as a feather, floating off, floating away, free and untethered and totally, utterly alone.

_It’s better this way. It’s better this way. It’s better this way._

–

Dean doesn’t open the package for a day.

Military mail is never a good thing – even his stipend, pulled from Sam’s research fund, a monthly lump sum sent over because he’s Sam’s “dependent” or whatever, like Dean wasn’t the one who raised the kid from the ground up, like he’s Sammy’s friggin’ army wife, is suspicious.

What could the military possibly offer him to make up for taking his brother away? That’s what they did; they took normal people and turned them into soulless automatons, chewing them up and spitting them back out into the real world, without a goddamn foot to stand on.

But it’s okay, because Dean refuses to let Sam go like their Dad. He’s been preparing, he’s got brochures and books and therapy at the ready, “Symptoms and Treatment of PTSD,” “Veterans’ Association,” all of it. Sammy’s gonna come back, they’re gonna get through their rough spots, and they’re gonna be fine.

And they’ll never talk about that night again, that horrible, wonderful night. Hell, Sam was probably too drunk to even remember what happened. He must have been so hungover that he forgot to wake Dean up, forgot about going to breakfast and saying goodbye at the train station. He must have forgotten. Why else would he leave at the ass-crack of dawn, with a note instead of a real goodbye? He forgot. It’s the only explanation.

Dean, of course, remembers that night too damn clearly, the softness of Sam’s mouth and the satisfying weight of his brother in his lap as they rubbed off against each other. God. He’s so sick. He’s sick and twisted and mentally disturbed, and he let down his guard for a split second and probably wrecked their whole relationship.

But once Sammy gets back, everything will be fine. He’s never once doubted that Sam would come back, not ever. Practically every house on the block has a son or daughter in the army, and he’s seen the military personnel in full finery march up to each door, one after another, to deliver their grim news, seen the faces of shock and rage and grief. He’s never once thought that they were coming for him.

Which is why he doesn’t understand why he can’t open the damn package.

He’s never once gotten a reply from Sam, which, you know, he gets. It’s wartime, letters get lost. He remembers his mom telling him stories of letter after letter sent to his father, getting maybe one response for every five or six sent. It’s hard to keep track of the postal system on the move, undercover.

Something’s different, though. His address, that’s not Sam’s handwriting, too long and sloping for Sam’s neat, small, box letters. It’s too thick for a letter, too small to be a book… a collection of photos? A souvenir from Ishval? Do they have souvenirs in Ishval?

Whatever it is, it’s burning a hole through Dean’s table, practically mocking him. Jesus, it’s not a portent of doom or whatever, it’s just a mysterious package with a military stamp from an anonymous sender.

Yeah. Not scary at all.

Fuck it.

Even before he opens it, he can already tell it will be the worst decision of his life.

The paper falls away, and there’s a note. And on the note, is the amulet. Sam’s amulet. His amulet. It’s so familiar that it almost doesn’t even register, and he automatically reaches out to put it back on – and then the world crashes down around him.

_He’s dead. He. He’s dead._

No. No he’s not, he’s not dead, this is some – this is a joke, or a prank, or –

He snatches up the note, reads through shaking hands, but he can’t even get through the first goddamn sentence, _Your brother asked me to send this to you –_

_No, no no no no no, not Sammy, please, God, please anything but Sammy. Please. God, please!_


	2. Part 2

There’s a woman, and her hands are red. She holds him in her arms, stroking his hair, whispering in his ear, but he can’t hear her over the sound of screaming, can’t see over the blinding orange glare of the warzone. His arms are heavy as lead, and he’s bleeding, he thinks. There’s an ache in his spine, deep and cold, and his eyes droop. _Please_ , he says. _Let me go to sleep. Just let me rest._

She strokes his cheek, fingers slipping into his mouth. He laves them, nurses on them, as she gentles him. _Sleep?_ she laughs softly. _We can’t have that. It’s time to wake up, Sammy._

She kisses his cheek, her long black hair falling over her shoulder, the bloody desert sun bearing down on them. Someone calls his name. When he turns to look at her, she smiles, eyes like tar.

_It’s time to go to work._

She shoves her fingers deeper into him, past teeth and tongue and throat, and he chokes, spitting, gagging, hands clawing at nothing, her arm in his mouth and he bites down and something tangy, bitter, oversweet floods him, sends his muscles twitching and his veins singing - 

“Sam!” Something strikes him, once, twice. “Sammy! Wake up!” There’s a hand in his hair but it’s larger, stronger, gentler, “It’s just a nightmare, c'mon little brother.” Sam breathes in, gasping, hacking lungfuls of air that leave his heart shaking, and he opens his eyes. The walls are indigo, the floor painted with streaks of an orange glow cast over him by the street lamp outside, over Dean as he looms over him, shadowed eyes in a cut face. Sam shivers.

“’m up.”

Dean bears his teeth, his body locked up tight. "There’s my soldier boy,” he jokes lamely through his grinning grimace, “have a nice nap?” He moves, hand reaching for the orange bottle on his nightstand, fingers of the other still stroking through his hair. It’s nice. It’s so lovely it makes Sam want to weep.

“Dean - ”

“Don’t even think about arguing, you need to sleep - ”

“That stuff always makes me sick in the morning - ”

Dean thrusts a glass full of water in his face. “Nausea we can handle. You need. To sleep.” Big brother voice in full force, there’s no use arguing with him. Like the beat down, broken soldier, little brother that he is, he lowers his eyes and takes his medication. Dean sighs like he’s bleeding, like it’s being pulled out of him. “Sammy… we need to talk about this.”

The pill is already sending him under. Shaking his head is like climbing a mountain. “No.”

“You’re not gonna - ”

“Dean,” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut. He hears dean’s breath catch in his throat, the hitch in his breathing he only ever has when he’s already started to cry. “Dean,” he says again, the pill stripping him of all his vocabulary, save for his first word, his only word, the word that means everything and anything. 

Dean sighs. “I’m here, Sammy,” voice thick, “I’m not gonna leave you.” Sam curls in on himself, but his arm is held captive by his brother, hand encircled by Dean’s own. It’s a sleepless dream, a feverish fantasy, but he needs to believe that the warm, dry press of lips to his palm is real, so he can take it with him into whatever hell his mind conjures for him next.

He sleeps until morning. When he opens his eyes, the walls are still blue, and Dean is laid up next to him, mouth slack, breathing deep, holding Sam’s hand.


	3. Part 0.5

Sam doesn’t work with Dr. Marcoh during the war. He certainly hears about him, though. “Dark Blood doesn’t need my help,” the good doctor had said, “he’s got his own damn poison. He won’t be getting any of mine.”

He’s right. His alchemy, it might as well be poison. He’d never even thought about withdrawal.

He’d never even tested it before he left. He knew his theory was sound, if a little unconventional, and all the brass had been so excited at his exam, at his potion - kinetic energy melted down into an injection - chattering about weaponization and wartime tactic. Sam wasn’t disappointed or scared, hell, he’d been banking on it. War was his only ticket out of here, away from the city, away from. Well.

As far as running away, this ranked a little bit on the extreme end. But he’d thought nothing could be a worse hell than being in love with his brother.

What a joke. He’d had no concept of hell.

His bed creaks from the force of his shakes, blood dripping where he bit down on his lips, his fingers, anything he could get his hands on, and he hasn’t slept in days, just fits of unconsciousness leaving him energy that runs out of him like water. Everything aches, from his temples to the soles of his feet, and he can’t stop shivering, wrapped in his thin blanket and the sweltering heat of Ishval. His jacket is too scratchy, the pins and stars clink together, tapping away at his skull, his pocketwatch on the floor, silver bright enough to blind him.

At least he has his own tent. He has a tent and a command and a platoon, but on any given day he can barely talk, let alone give an order. He’s been upping his dose since his exam, because they need him to be stronger, faster, for longer, and Sam will do it, he’ll do anything. He doesn’t give a shit anymore. He’ll do anything to numb himself. When he’s at war, he can’t think, when he can’t think, he doesn’t think about home. He doesn’t think about his brother. He only dreams of fire, now, fire and smoke and gunpowder. Not home. Not his brother.

It’s better this way - he’s a weapon, after all. Feelings aren’t a part of the package. He only has duty, even if that duty is state-sanctioned murder.

“Major?” Lily, his lieutenant, she’s come with his dose, god bless her, “It’s… can i come in?” He can’t even answer her, his tongue’s too tied up, trying to sink down into his throat to choke himself. She comes in, anyway, all the way up to his bed, sinks down to her knees and takes his hand. She’s so warm. She’s on fire, like the children he saw today, yesterday, weeks and months ago, crushed beneath rubble, lying in pieces on the road. “I have your next dose, and… there’s a letter.”

Sam’s going to vomit. his heart beats too thickly, the wet roar of blood in his ears, and Dean’s necklace digs against his skin, where it always is. “Burn it." 

It’s war - letters are lost all the time. "But - ”

“Do it. Leave the needle.” He needs his poison. All he wants to do is lie down and fall asleep, forever, hoping that each time he wakes with blood on his hands that it’s a fluke, that this time he’s died and gone to hell for real. 

Accident, overdose, whatever, Sam’s probably going to die in this war. But that’s fine. He’ll never see dean again, and that’s fine. Death’s been his lover for far longer, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr user idiotbrothers wrote a part 1 here (http://idiotbrothers.tumblr.com/post/97514058421/fullmetal-alchemist-x-spn-1728-words-pg-15) that is way more wincesty than this. she's not into spn that much anymore, but it's still one of my fav things she's done. <3 you aya


End file.
